|
MarlalaLynn
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Marla Blum
State: Colorado
Metro: Denver
Birthday: 10/10/1990
Gender: Female
Interests: I'd like to leave you with something valuable, she said. You probably already have, I said, but we take most of our lives to remember that, even in the best of times
Expertise: sarcasm
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  TinkishOne
Member Since:
2/23/2005
|
|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
|
I cried for the world today, she said.
(it's really weird when you get that feeling of thinking about the whole world at one time, yet each individual too.)
& they both decided that each person was full of unfathomable humanity
I never killed anybody and I never developed an intense level of
hatred for the the enemy. Because my war ended before I ever put on a
uniform; I was on active duty all my time at school; I killed my enemy
there.
Only Phineas never was afraid, only Phineas never hated
anyone. Other people experienced this fearful shock somewhere, this
sighting of the enemy, and so began an obsessive labor of defense,
began to parry the menace they saw facing them by developing a
particular frame of mind,
'You see,' their behavior toward everything and everyone proclaimed,
'I am a humble ant, I am nothing, I am not worthy of this menace,'
or else, like Mr. Ludsbury,
'How dare this threaten me, I am much to good for this sort of handling, I shall rise above this,'
or
else, like Quackenbush, strike out at it always and everywhere, or
else, like Brinker develop a careless general resentment against it, or
else, like Leper, emerge from a protective cloud of vagueness only to
meet it, the horror, face to face, just as he had always feared, and so
give up the struggle absolutely.
All of them, all except Phineas,
constructed at infinite cost to themselves these Maginot Lines against
the enemy they thought they saw across the frontier, this enemy who
never attacked that way- if he ever attacked at all; if he was indeed
the enemy.
I think the enemy is our own nature- the dark part of it- that's what we're all scared of.
That's what we have to fight against.
I think that's the reason why the world should be wept over.
(most people don't consider either their own internal enemy or the world at large)
"They don't want to think.
instead of understand and become."
The most frequent impediment to men's turning the mind inward upon themselves
is that they are afraid of what they shall find there.
There is an aching hollowness in the bosom, a dark cold speck at the heart,
an obscure and boding sense of something that must be kept out of sight of the conscience;
some secret lodger, whom they can neither resolve to reject not retain.
And how empty you went through the world
like a wheat-colored jar
without air, without sound, without substance!
but, my words like silent raindrops
F
E
L
L
| | |
| 
God made her heart like a rose shaped bowl,
and rain was his ink to write her soul.
Is that why she's so solemn?
Her soul turns right and left- tries to find
should she stay here, or go lose her mind
Is this where that look came from?
Her mind runs barefoot through a garden of thoughts
it's often caught but never lost.
Is that why she can't know them?
Her body rages; the storm will pass
waiting for heart and mind and soul to grasp...
and so she flings her head
she runs and falls, and finds her bed.
The disaster of concession.
BUT
She will not stay here forever
her heart will turn to laughter
her soul won't wait till after
her mind will race on faster
and she will be there singing
sing the sounds of rushing water
La
La
La
(Listen to my whisper)
If you close your eyes:
You can see her.
| | |
|
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
| | |
| Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man
I've begun to learn that you can listen to silence and learn from it.
It has a quality and a dimension all its own. It talks to me
sometimes. I feel myself alive in it. It talks. And I can hear it.
You have to want to listen to it, and then you can hear it. It has a
strange, beautiful texture. It doesn't always talk. Sometimes-
sometimes it cries, and you can hear the pain of the world in it. It
hurts to listen to it then. But you have to.
You'd notice that there seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.
A spider had spun a web across the corner of the
upper rail, and there was a housefly trapped in it now, its wings
spread-eagled, glued to the strands of web, its legs flaying the air
frantically. I saw its black body arching wildly, and then it managed to
get its wings free, and there was the buzzing sound again as the wings
struggled to free the body to which they were attached. Then the wings
were trapped again by the filmy, almost invisible strands of the web, and the black
legs kicked the air. I saw the spider, a small, gray, furry-looking
spider, with long, wispy legs and black eyes, move across the web toward the
fly. I rose from the chair and went over to the web. The fly's tiny
black legs flayed the air fiercely, then its wings were free again, buzzing
noisily, but its body remained glued fast. I bent and blew hard against
the web. It swayed, but remained intact. I blew again, harder now,
and the strands seemed suddenly to melt. The fly fell on its back to the
wooden floor of the porch, righted itself, then flew off, buzzing loudly.
The spider tumbled from the broken web, hung by a single strand a few inches
above the floor, then swiftly climbed the strand, scrambled across the top
front rail of the porch, and disappeared. I went back to the lounged
chair, sat down, and continued to stare at the sunlight on the ailanthus.
It was one of those "five happy things" a day desk calendars; full of sundry lists that bespoke of carb-laden, cliche` joys: hot french bread, clothes fresh out of the dryer, raindrops on roses, your favourite song on the radio, and bubble baths. That sort of stuff. Only it wasn't on the right page. Todays isn't the seventh. I guess he just needed to borrow a couple tomorrows worth of happinesses to get through today.
As you grow older you will discover that the most important things that will happen to you will often come as a result of silly things, as you call them- 'ordinary things' is a better expression. That is the way the world is.
In the Jingle Jangle Morning I'll come following you.
| | |
|
m
. 
